Crowley's Worst Nightmare
by slightlytookish
Summary: Things are looking pretty strange from Crowley’s point of view...


**Note:** Thank you to Irisbleufic for the beta!

The bell jingled cheerfully as Crowley entered the bookshop. He silenced the offending object with a glance before turning his attention to the scene unfolding before him. It was, in a word, shocking.

The bookshop looked _inviting_. Not only was it devoid of its usual dust and odd smells, but it was well-lit and decorated for Christmas. There were wreaths with bright red bows and little sprigs of holly adorning the windows, and mistletoe hung above the door.

Crowley shuddered.

Most appalling of all, the shop was filled with people. Crowley had to fight his way through the crowd and when he finally reached the till his sunglasses were askew and he was absolutely furious.

Aziraphale glanced up from the book he was wrapping. "Oh – hello, Crowley," he said, looking oddly pleased considering that his shop was teeming with customers pawing through his precious books. He handed the wrapped parcel to an old woman with a smile and his best wishes for a happy Christmas before returning his attention to Crowley.

"What's the meaning of this, angel?" Crowley demanded.

Aziraphale beamed at him. "Do you like the decorations?"

"No," Crowley replied coldly. "I miss the dust and the dark. Now there are _people_ here, and they're _cheerful_, and you've just sold one of your first-edition Wildes. Have you gone completely mad?"

"I think they're lovely," Aziraphale said, still smiling as he admired the dilapidated Christmas tree drooping in the corner. "Oh! I nearly forgot the music." After a brief, furtive glance around to make sure that no one was watching, he made a gesture. An ancient radio crackled to life.

As a nauseatingly sentimental Christmas song began to play, Crowley stormed out of the shop, forgetting in his haste to cause the mistletoe to vanish, or at the very least, wilt.

* * *

"I think," Crowley said acidly, "that you must be mistaken."

The dour-faced young man heaved a nearly imperceptible sigh as he scanned the list of names once again. "I'm terribly sorry, sir," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "There is no Anthony J. Crowley on the list. Nor is there an A.J. Crowley. There is, in fact, no Crowley at all."

Crowley blessed under his breath.

"Oh, my," Aziraphale said, looking concerned. Never before had they been asked if they had booked a table at the Ritz. "Is there a Fell on your list, perhaps?" he asked hopefully. "F-E-L-L?"

The young man took a cursory glance at his list. "No, sir. Would you care to make a reservation?"

Crowley removed his sunglasses, his yellow eyes dangerously narrowed, but before he could offer a cutting retort Aziraphale took him firmly by the arm and pulled him away.

"Another time, perhaps. Thank you!" the angel called over his shoulder as he pushed Crowley through the door.

Outside it was drizzling, and both Crowley and Aziraphale walked to the car in a stunned silence. Once they were safely out of the rain, Aziraphale turned to Crowley, filled with compassion at the demon's obvious distress.1

"My dear-"

He was interrupted by the sound of the Bentley suddenly screeching into a lane of oncoming traffic. As he steered the car down the street at a hundred and twenty miles an hour, Crowley sulked. He had always thought that reservations happened to other people. He had never expected something so horrific to happen to _him_.

* * *

"Really, my dear," Aziraphale murmured as he turned to glimpse himself in the three-way mirror, "is it that dreadful?" He tilted his head, adjusted the lapels of the jacket, and thrust his hands into the pockets.

"Er." Crowley looked closely at the angel, then removed his sunglasses and peered even _more_ closely. In the fluorescent lighting of the department store his eyes were wide, surprised, and a pale yellow.

"Well. It's not _dreadful_, it's just...different." Crowley took a step away and glanced around almost desperately. "What about this one?" he offered, snatching a coat from a nearby rack. He held it up against Aziraphale, right beneath his chin, the wooden hanger digging into the angel's shoulder. "This is more your style."

His attempt at an encouraging smile was rather terrifying.

"No," Aziraphale replied coolly. "It's tartan."

"I thought you liked tartan," the demon snapped. He threw the coat aside; it fell to a heap on the floor, but a moment later it leapt back onto the rack, hanging neatly from its hanger once more. Aziraphale glanced around guiltily, but none of the other shoppers noticed.

"Tartan is stylish, you said. Tartan is a classic pattern, you said." Crowley threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "You own tartan _earmuffs_, angel."

"Well, yes," Aziraphale replied dismissively. "But I thought it was a time for a change. And," he added with a winning smile as he did a little twirl before the mirror, "I've always wanted to wear _leather_."

* * *

The door to Aziraphale's bookshop opened with a bang. Crowley staggered inside, looking as dishevelled and as groggy as if he had been asleep for a week.2

With obvious pleasure Crowley observed the dark and dusty windows, the absence of holiday decorations, and the distinct lack of customers and silently thanked Go-, Sa-, _Somebody_ that everything seemed to be back to normal.

He found Aziraphale in the back room. The angel was perched on the sofa and sipping a cup of Earl Grey as he pored over a book. He glanced up and peered at Crowley in concern.

"My dear boy," he said, setting his cup aside. "You look _dreadful_. Did you have another nightmare?"

"There were customers," Crowley said, gesturing wildly. "_Buying books_. Holly and mistletoe and terrible music. The Ritz said we needed a reservation. And you – you were wearing _leather_."

"Oh, my," Aziraphale said, blanching. He stood and took Crowley gently by the hands, leading him to the sofa. "You have had a hard time of it, poor thing. Sometimes I wonder if you've forgotten that you don't _really_ need to sleep. I hope this will be a lesson to you. But never mind that now. Tea?"

Carefully Aziraphale deposited Crowley on the sofa, pausing for a moment to wrap a cheery tartan blanket around the shuddering demon's shoulders. Then, as he stooped to collect his teacup from the table, Aziraphale discretely miracled away his new leather jacket, which had been carefully draped over the back of a nearby chair. There was no need to cause Crowley further alarm today, after all.

* * *

1 And, truth be told, he was also filled with compassion for himself. Aziraphale had had his heart set on the salmon.  
2 Nine days, to be precise.


End file.
